


The Island of Opportunity

by chiquititasnewsong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22062967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiquititasnewsong/pseuds/chiquititasnewsong
Summary: When Sam and Dean find themselves transported to an island outside of anything they've known, they get and learn more than they ever bargained for.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 99





	The Island of Opportunity

**Author's Note:**

> So what do I do at the beginning of 2020? Apparently fill a kink meme prompt with NC17 Sam/Dean. 
> 
> I'm hoping this just means 2020 will be a good year. Heh. 
> 
> Here's the prompt: 
> 
> Upon awaking on a beautiful tropical island, the Winchester brothers discover they're on the Isle of Lesbos.
> 
> The island is filled with the most beautiful women. But there's something odd - the women only show interest in each other. And even stranger, Sam and Dean feel no pull to the women.
> 
> But they do feel a very strong pull... to each other! The island is slowly making them gay, and with no other men around, they're starting to get a bit thirsty for each other's gorgeous abs and rock hard dic-
> 
> But they're brothers!!!
> 
> Slowly but surely the island drives them into lust for each other, until they surrender to their desires and have sex all over the beach, alternating between fucking like animals and gentle lovemaking, paying no mind to the women around them...
> 
> There's a blow job, frottage, top!Sam and top!Dean (they switch), and schmoop. 
> 
> I tweaked the prompt just a bit, but hopefully not much.

When asked about it later, Sam will say he knows it shouldn't have surprised him. Living in an underground bunker with damn near every supernatural object ever found in the world and letting his brother wander unsupervised is bound to lead to these kinds of predicaments. 

But he can honestly say at the time, he didn't think anything of it when Dean hollered from a room downstairs to "come see this!" 

Sam had gone and saw and when he reached out to touch the strange-looking thing in his brother's hands, he maybe had a split-second thought of _this might not be a good idea_ before everything went black. 

**

Sam's first awareness is warmth. Not terribly oppressive, but it's definitely coming from the sun. Sand under his fingertips scratches along his skin and he thinks, the beach? He's at the beach? 

He hears waves lapping on a shore and opens his eyes, squinting at the light. 

He sits up and discovers that it's a beach, alright. A pretty nice one, actually. 

And there are a surprising number of women -- just about everywhere. In fact, the longer Sam looks, the more he begins to realize there isn't a man in sight. 

_Dean._

That trips Sam's heart into a double-time cadence and he's probably a little frantic when he turns his head to find Dean sitting in the sand about three feet away with an expression on his face that can only be called unadulterated glee. His green eyes absolutely sparkle when they shift to Sam. 

Despite the relief Sam feels to have his brother beside him, he can tell this is likely going to get out of hand remarkably fast, so he attempts to express caution, "Okay, we don't really know--"

"What's to know?" Dean interrupts, utterly delighted. "I think we just found Nirvana."

"Dean, we should probably--" That's all the more Sam can get out before his brother hops up, brushes sand from his hands, sheds the outer layer of flannel, revealing the white t-shirt underneath and sets off to the shoreline where the majority of the women congregate. 

Sam wants to suggest that it might be better if they stick together and figure out a way back to the bunker, but he's caught watching Dean's hips sway beneath the denim and a little captivated at how tight his jeans are. The curve of his ass is nicely delineated by the...

Wait, what the fuck? 

Sam shakes his head and has to look away from Dean. Like forcibly glance the other way. 

Jesus. That's...a little strange. 

Sure, when they were kids, Dean was the nexus by which Sam’s universe turned, and maybe, there were times, when Sam was older that he would think of his brother in ways that normal brothers didn’t, but that was a long, long time ago and mostly just random anomalies that didn’t amount to much of anything. Hell, it didn’t even happen all that much. 

But now. There’s just something about the way the sun hits those golden, natural highlights in Dean’s hair. 

And damn it. Sam has to deliberately look away again. 

Thankfully, he’s distracted by the dark-haired women who walks up to him with a welcoming smile and a vocal, “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

Sam clears his throat and stands up, suddenly aware how much sand he’s collected on his jeans and how the heat has started to seep into his shirt. “Um,” he answers inanely. “I am. Yes.”

The woman nods and holds out her hand. “I’m Lorraine. Sort of the unofficial welcome wagon. We have a bungalow for you all set up.”

Sam blinks, but shakes her hand automatically. This can’t be right. “Uh, Sam. And, no. That won’t be necessary. We aren’t going to stay.”

The woman — Lorraine — has an odd expression when she breaks the hand shake. One that speaks of knowing something Sam doesn’t, but she’s not unkind. In fact, she’s quite stunning — probably in her early 30’s with striking brown eyes and a complexion that says she spends a lot of time in the sun. 

In another world, another time, he probably would have gone for…something. Instead, his eyes skip over the crowd on the beach to try to locate Dean again. 

“It’s not a problem,” Lorraine says, pulling Sam’s attention back to the conversation. “Everyone has a place here. Just look for bungalow fifteen. It’s all yours for as long as you need it.”

Sam wants to ask what she means, but she’s backing away and waving before he gets a chance. 

How could there be something already set up for them? 

Dean races back and he's practically bouncing on his heels. "Holy shit, Sammy, some of these chicks aren't even wearing any clothes."

Sam shakes off that pronouncement with a twitch of his head. "Dean. We need to talk about this. Something's kind of...odd about this place."

"Yeah tell me about it," Dean appears to look around. "I can't see a bar. How's a guy supposed to get a beer around here?"

This might take more work than Sam originally thought to get them back to the bunker. 

"Okay," Sam sighs, reaching for some sense of reason when all he really wants to do is feel the soft hair on the back of Dean's neck against his palm. "I just had a lady tell me we have a bungalow already waiting for us. Doesn't that strike you as a bit weird?"

Of all the ways he could have convinced Dean to refocus on getting back, that clearly wasn't it if the sudden anticipation that flared on his face is any indication. 

"We have a bungalow?" His eyes actually glow. "Are you fucking around with me?"

"Dean--"

"Did they tell you which one?"

Clearly his brother won't be diverted. 

Sam goes for logic. "After all the supernatural crap that we've dealt with all our lives, you're really willing to just dive head-first into this like nothing's off at all?"

Dean stops for a second, exhales and glances to the sand at his boots. When he looks back up, he's quiet. "Can we just take a quick look?"

Sam's chest constricts. This is Dean -- tired of worrying about how to stop Amara, worn out from the life they lead, just looking for a momentary respite in a place that appears tailor-made for him to let go for a little while. Despite the warning signs that something's likely amiss here, Sam can't deny him. He's finding it harder and harder to deny Dean anything the older they get. 

So Sam nods, murmurs, "we can look," and gives in to the odd impulse to reach out and slide his hand along Dean's elbow. 

Dean's reaction to the touch is as uncharacteristic as it is incendiary -- he visibly shivers and inhales softly, lips parting and pupils blown. He steps back just far enough to disconnect their skin and seems slightly shaken when he whispers, "Cool."

Equally surprising is what watching Dean does to Sam -- he quivers, deep in his stomach and some bizarre, fucked up urge makes him, for a split second, want nothing more than to pull Dean against him for a kiss. 

And an acute instinct tells him Dean would let him. 

Sam jolts back from all of it and blurts out, absurdly, "F-fifteen."

Dean blinks, still obviously perplexed, and Sam clears his throat, steps back a bit more, and says as concisely as he can manage, “They told me it was bungalow fifteen.”

It takes a few seconds for Dean to nod a a little unsteadily and echo Sam’s “fifteen” in an equally bumbling manner before setting off through the sand. 

Sam really has to figure out what the hell is going on here, and the best way to do that is to probably stick with Dean. 

That’s what he tells himself anyway. 

Dean finds the bungalow in a remarkably short amount of time and Sam wouldn’t admit it to anyone out loud, but it kind of takes his breath away. 

It’s mostly bed — oversized, gotta be bigger than a California king even — and the roof is dark wood and open on three sides to the breeze. It’s far enough away from any of the others to offer privacy and it’s inviting like nothing Sam’s ever really seen before. 

The single bed that’s apparently been chosen for them isn’t as weird as it likely should be. 

Dean barely even notices as he walks around to the dresser in the back against the only wall, where there’s also a door that likely leads to a bathroom. He produces two sets of beach shorts with a delighted, “They’re even in our size, Sammy.”

A blue pair comes flying at Sam’s head and he only catches them by instinct. “Dean, doesn’t this freak you out at all?”

Dean whips his t-shirt over his head, exposing muscles and nipples and smooth…and Sam looks desperately away. 

Especially when he hears belt and boots hit the wooden floor. 

Shit. This is fucked up. 

“Freaks me out that you’re still in all those layers,” Dean announces. “C’mon, Sam. Get with the program.”

Sam wants to address the elephant here, he really does, but there’s something about seeing Dean — beyond the sudden physical attraction — truly happy, almost gleeful, that keeps him from bringing it up. 

Instead, he starts shedding clothes — boots, socks, flannel, t-shirt and jeans — and notices Dean watching and his brother’s green-eyed stare alone kicks up the speed of his heart.

Dean moves around the bed, toward Sam, with an intent of some kind in his eyes, and Sam’s rooted to the boards, barefoot, shirtless, and really fucking turned on. 

Dean stops within arms reach, but raises pleading eyes to connect with Sam’s. “I know what you're saying here, Sammy. I really do. And I get that we need to figure this out. It’s just,” he looks away for a second, to the shoreline, and inhales. “maybe we could hang for just a little bit. Get a beer or something,” he shrugs before picking up steam. “Maybe just dinner?” and his eyes are back to Sam. “Whaddya say, Sammy? Just grab a bite and something to drink and watch the chicks and the waves and the sun for a little bit and then we can figure a way back. I swear. Okay?”

There isn’t a power in any universe that could get Sam to say no to that. He nods around a soft, “Okay, Dean.”

And Dean’s entire expression coalesces into an utterly gorgeous smile, crinkles at the corners of his eyes and everything. Before Sam knows what’s happening, Dean stretches up, arms around Sam’s shoulders for a hug that connects them chest-to-chest, and the contact is so electric, exhilarating, Sam thinks he can actually hear the sizzle. 

Sam slides his hands up Dean’s spine and the feel of skin under his palms is so addictive. 

Dean steps back with a soft, “awesome,” and a breathless quality to his voice that’s mirrored in Sam’s next inhale. 

Sam’s dizzy when he follows his brother, black beach shorts hugging Dean's ass, and fuck, Sam’s mouth actually waters. He has to concentrate on not stumbling over his own bare feet.

Dean manages -- not surprisingly -- to find a pretty impressive veranda with an equally remarkable barbecue. His green eyes light up at the succulent-looking pork and mouth-watering chicken. 

A nice woman with a sweet smile comes up behind them and says, “Hey boys, eat up. The chefs here are amazing.”

Dean gives Sam his patented _why not_ expression and digs in. Sam fills his own plate and the two settle in to cushioned patio chairs to partake. 

And God, the lady wasn’t wrong. The food is unreal. Some of the best Sam’s ever had. 

Just as Dean’s making the fifth obscene noise in about as many minutes, another woman walks up and takes a seat at the empty chair next to Sam. 

“Hiya,” she says with a little bounce, making the short blond curls on her head shake. “I’m Missy.”

Sam smiles around his bite of potato and after swallowing says, “Sam. And this is Dean.”

“You guys ever been here before?” 

And now that Sam’s eaten and had a swig or two of beer, he’s ready to figure out what the hell here is. “We haven’t. How about you?”

“Oh, all the time,” Missy admits. “This place is the best.”

Dean puts down his now-empty plate and says, “Maybe you could show us around.”

Sam rolls his eyes and thinks, _here we go_ , but the tone is off. In fact, Dean is kind of off in the the whole approach. The words are typical and characteristic, but it’s as though the intent isn’t there. Like Dean doesn’t really mean them or even want anything to come of it. 

Missy barely blinks and says, “Obviously you haven’t been here before or you would know you’re barking up the wrong tree. I just wanted to stop by and say hey and that I hope you guys have a great time. This place can totally change your life.”

A dark-haired woman steps up behind Missy, slides a hand along her shoulder and asks, “Ready to go, babe?” 

Missy answers by standing, giving the other woman a kiss and the two walk off together. 

Sam doesn’t want to look at Dean because he knows he’ll likely find open-mouthed gaping or a licentious smirk. Sam may have always been the one who’s spank bank go-to is lesbian, but Dean could never turn it down in the flesh. 

Shockingly, Dean appears only vaguely interested and if Sam’s being introspective, he was barely affected himself. 

He frowns. 

This really is weird. 

“Okay,” Dean says, leaning back in his chair. “How about the dessert bar?”

“Dean, seriously,” Sam attempts logic. “Doesn’t any of this seem really bizarre to you?”

Dean nods. “It does. But I’m thinking we should maybe have our ‘let’s work the case’ conversation away from interested ears.”

Sam gives his brother a point for that one. The veranda is pretty crowded. 

He can’t, however, convince Dean to forego the desserts, so Sam ends up with a brownie that he eats in one bite and Dean has what looks like some kind of ice cream in a cup that’s covered in almost as much candy as Sam’s known even existed. 

They wander away from the barbecue just as the sun sets behind the water and lights begin to spark on along the wooden walkway. 

Dean makes a sound of appreciation around his spoon and decides, “You gotta try this.”

Sam stops when Dean moves in front of him with a scoop of ice cream that he basically shoves between Sam’s lips. Sam has a difficult time not choking on the confection, but has to admit, after getting a decent taste, whatever his brother put together isn’t half bad. Sam acknowledges this with a nod and an agreeable sound. 

“I am an ice cream aficionado,” Dean declares and stops, staring pointedly at Sam’s mouth. “You’ve got…”

And without any sort of hesitation, Dean uses his thumb to wipe away a bit of ice cream from Sam’s bottom lip. 

Sam’s stomach drops out and his cock actually twitches and he’s hit with a sudden urge to pull Dean’s thumb into his mouth and just suck. For as long as Dean would let him. 

And that thought is followed with images of sucking other parts of Dean’s body. 

The two of them jerk apart at the same time and Dean says, somewhat forcefully, “Okay, so. This place.”

Sam needs a breath or two to regain his equilibrium before asking, “What are you thinking?” 

Dean’s scraping the bottom of the cup with his spoon and murmurs, “I really think we found Nirvana?”

Sam concedes with an agreeable noise. “Other than that?”

Dean actually appears to consider his answer as he tosses the empty ice cream container in a trash can. “What about alternate universe?” He asks this while stretching his arms over his head, giving Sam an incredible view of the rippling muscles of his back and shoulders. Sam’s teeth clench around the compulsion to take a bite.

His answer of “possibly” comes out pretty breathless. 

Dean spins on his heel. “You know something really weird?”

Sam dips his chin in a silent bid for Dean to continue. 

“I don’t really feel anything for these women,” Dean muses. “I mean, they’re hot. I can see that. But I don’t…it’s not like…”

Sam nods, trying not to notice the way the fading light shifts the colors in Dean’s hair. “So we add that to the list.”

By this time, they’ve wandered back to the bungalow and Sam gratefully takes a seat at the end of the bed, relieving his strangely wobbly knees. He inhales deeply, taking in the sea air and reaching for some level of composure. “So how do you think we get back?”

Dean’s still on the walkway and he’s got a peculiar expression. Contemplative. Reflective. And he won’t take his eyes off Sam. 

“Dean?” Sam hesitates. “What?”

Sam will admit when his brother takes his time to figure something out, watching it is kind of unsettling. Dean can be incredibly focused when he wants to be and Sam discovers being the source of that fixed attention can be quite daunting. 

Dean takes a step or two toward the bungalow with a soft, “Don’t freak out, okay?”

Anytime a sentence begins with those three words, Sam’s pretty much guaranteed to do the opposite. “Dean…” he hitches a little further back, arms behind him on the mattress, but doesn’t actually move out of Dean’s path. 

“I just want to try something,” Dean murmurs, stepping between Sam’s knees. 

Sam’s breath shudders when Dean leans in, close, where Sam can smell the sand and sea breeze on his brother, along with a hint of that distinct scent of spice and gunpowder and leather that seems etched into Dean’s skin. 

“Dean, I…” he has to look slightly up at his brother because of their positions and the reversal shivers through him. 

“I know,” Dean breathes, unsteady. “If it’s too much, and you’re really fucking grossed out or something, push me away. Kick my ass. Whatever. Just. I…”

It’s slow, when Dean reaches out to cup the back of Sam’s neck in his palm, fingers twined into his hair and Sam’s entire body lights up like a live wire. 

“If,” Dean starts and loses steam for a second. “If we’re making a list, we should probably,” he exhales and Sam can almost taste the breath, sweet of ice cream and yeast of beer. “uh, probably add the fact that pretty much since I woke up in the sand…”

Sam’s panting with fingers fisted in the sheet behind him. 

“I have really wanted,” Dean whispers. “To do really unbrotherly things to you.”

Sam’s cock fills so fast, he’s light-headed. “Dean—“

“I know it’s fucked up,” Dean continues in that gentle, mesmerizing tone. “I know it is. But I keep thinking what happens here, stays here. Like, can’t get that thought out of my head,” Dean inhales and he’s inches — _inches_ — away from Sam’s face. “I figured if we’re working this like a case, maybe,” Dean’s fingers fist at the nape of Sam’s neck, sending shockwaves to Sam’s dick. “I should see if you’re affected the same way. Or, at all, for that matter.”

Through the blinding haze of need thumping to the beat of Sam’s heart, he’s able to recognize that as always, in everything, Dean wants only what Sam wants. Dean — pupils blown, lips quivering — is asking first. Always. 

And Sam wants, for the first time in a very long time, to forget everything and not worry about tomorrow. He wants, rather desperately, to find out what Dean knows about this. Sex. Fucking. 

He wants to know his brother’s tastes and noises and he recognizes his own voice sounds incredibly young when he asks, “Can we? Please?”

The words make Dean’s entire body tremble, “Just give me the green light, Sammy. You’re really on board?”

And suddenly, Sam’s never been so sure about anything in his life. “Yes.”

Like the snap of a lit match, the space between them disappears and Dean’s mouth is on Sam’s and Sam can’t help the sound that passes from him to his brother. 

Sam falls back, taking Dean with him and it’s a full body undulation between both of them that damn near pulls the orgasm straight out of Sam’s balls. He only just manages to clamp down and not come in his shorts within point two seconds of the whole thing taking off. 

But it’s close. 

He gasps around Dean’s mouth, the skin of their stomachs and legs skipping together and Dean grunts a ragged, “Up, baby,” trying to push Sam closer to the head of the bed. “Need better leverage.”

Sam scrabbles up the mattress, the term of endearment bringing a warmth to his chest, even as his cock throbs almost painfully, and then they’re both stretched out, Dean between Sam’s legs and their dicks line up perfectly, even covered by the thin beach shorts, and a whine slips out of Sam’s throat. 

“Goddamn, yeah,” Dean groans against Sam’s neck. “That’s the fucking sweet spot.”

Dean grinds down, hips a perfect counter rhythm to Sam’s up thrusts, and it’s too much of everything, sensation, scent, his brother’s amazing tempo and Sam’s nipples pull taut and his back arches and he rasps, “Dean…I can’t — shit, I’m gonna…”

Sam’s knees fall open and his ass pushes up, up, up and he comes in strong spurts inside his shorts, coating the thin material with wet and fuck, as embarrassing as it may be, it’s also blindingly good and he’s clinging to Dean, sucking air like a drowning man, and chanting a litany of obscenities he can’t even be sorry for. 

Dean slides to one elbow and the look of pride on his face will stay with Sam for a long time. “Well, hell, Sammy, that was fucking hot. How long’s it been since you cleaned the pipes?”

“I think,” Sam admits, still mindless and unable to breathe correctly, “it might just be you.”

That gets him a stunning, gorgeous expression from his brother and a kiss that goes past Sam’s teeth. 

Sam regains some of his composure and pushes Dean over to his back, a veritable buffet for Sam’s sudden gluttony. 

Dean swats at Sam’s shorts. “Get these off. Wanna see what you’re packing.”

Sam huffs a laugh and winces a little at the cooling wet spunk sliding around his softening dick as he kicks off the shorts. 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean breathes. “What are you, part horse? And that’s not even fully chubbed up.”

“Quit it,” Sam admonishes around the momentary sense of little-brother pride. “Your turn.”

And when Dean gets rid of his shorts, Sam’s a little caught up in the width and dark red of his brother’s cock, weeping precome at the tip, and he murmurs, “You’re so full of shit. Talk about horses. Damn. No wonder you keep the ladies happy.”

Sam can’t help but reach out and watch Dean shudder when he takes hold of his brother’s dick and grazes his thumb just under the head. 

Dean makes a low sound deep in his throat and Sam wants more of that. Always. 

Sam marvels at how wet Dean gets with just a few little circles rubbed under the glans and how his hips seem connected to that exact spot. Each time Sam flicks his thumb, Dean’s ass lifts in reaction. It’s almost like playing an instrument and Sam’s got a pretty decent symphony going before Dean gasps, “Sammy, come on. Fuck.”

Sam takes that as permission and leans forward for one, quick lick. 

Dean falls back to the mattress around a whimper and Sam wants another taste. 

God, having his brother like this, wide open, burning hot cock caught between Sam’s hand and his mouth sends an answering heat down Sam’s spine. 

Dean tastes like salt and sharp and musk and Sam opens his mouth and throat and goes as far as he can, wanting to get Dean to the point where he might fuck Sam’s throat. 

He’s done this before a time or two but something about it being Dean, the scent, the knowledge, the shared…everything, takes it to a whole different level. 

Sam stays down, nose almost — _almost_ — at Dean's pubes, for as long as he can, before pulling back for a quick, wet breath. He chokes, maybe, a time or two, tries not to outright cough, but makes up for it by sucking and swallowing around the length of Dean’s cock when it’s fully seated in Sam’s throat. 

He gets a pretty good cadence of _suck, swallow, pull up_ going to make Dean mindless and twisting on the bed. “Shit, Sam… _fuck_ , you gotta…”

Sam hums, deliberately, extended, deep in his throat, and Dean jerks helplessly, sounds almost frantic when he grates out, “Sam, I can’t—“

Sam pulls off with a slurp to say, “I want it. Come on,” before going right back down. 

Dean’s entire body seizes and he groans long and loud and Sam can actually feel Dean’s cock spasm in his mouth and some of it dribbles out past his bottom lip, but he takes it, coats his mouth in his brother’s come and marvels at the strong, acute flavor. 

Sam nibbles and licks past the point of comfort and Dean shifts and settles his hand on Sam’s head and whispers, “Sammy, enough,” around a grunt. 

Sam lifts his head with a grin that even he can feel is pretty wild. 

“C’mere, you lunatic,” Dean commands in a quiet, affectionate tone, and Sam goes, crawls up the bed and lets Dean taste himself on Sam’s tongue.

“Two minutes and it’s my turn,” Dean promises, trading kisses. 

Sam’s cock twitches and he gets lost in his brother long after the sun has set and the moon rises above them.

***

The screech of a seagull rouses Sam and he’s surprised to find the sun has risen and Dean isn’t beside him. 

Shit. His brother must be freaking out somewhere. 

Sam breathes erratically. He might not be terribly composed himself. 

He’s naked in a bed he shared with Dean, covered in spit and dried come and a languid feeling that pairs with memories — actual memories, not just snapshot dreams — of his brother he never thought he’d have. 

Even as he reaches for the shorts he’d worn last night — equally messy — a heat blooms in his stomach at the thought of re-learning his brother’s tastes and noises and spots that make him moan in that low, guttural way he has right before he…

Sam coughs, attempts to cover the growing hard-on in his shorts and sets out to find Dean. 

Not surprisingly, Dean is standing at the breakfast bar, talking to a nice-looking, older woman and the conversation appears quite genuine. Dean doesn’t have his trademark Lothario lip curl or the stance that says he’s on the prowl. 

He’s even wearing a different pair of pants and his hair looks like he’s showered. 

And goddamn, where the hell did Dean even find lightweight linen pants, let alone have the thought in his head to actually put them on? The white material gets caught in random breezes and molds itself perfectly to his brother’s hips and calves and….fuck. Sam can tell Dean’s not wearing anything underneath. 

Sam steps up behind him on pretty unsteady legs and the woman says, “Looks like he came to find you,” before she squeezes Dean’s elbow with a kind smile and moves off with her plate. 

Dean turns and Sam hears the sharp inhale and quiet, “Sammy.”

Sam tries, rather desperately, not to get distracted by Dean’s blown eyes and plump lips and instead says, “We should talk.”

Dean nods and follows him on bare feet to a table. 

They both sit and at the same time say:

“Look—“

“Listen—“

Sam huffs a slight chuckle and motions for Dean to start. 

Dean shakes his head with an obvious _go ahead_ gesture. 

Sam suddenly wishes he’d thought to take a shower before all this. He can’t help but feel a little unbalanced in the face of a freshly-washed, shirtless Dean who even after only one day in the sun has apparently taken on a golden tone to his skin, making his green eyes pop even more. 

Sam just wants to be in his brother’s lap, tug at the drawstring on those damn pants and forget this fucking conversation for the rest of the day. Instead, knowing they’ve essentially become the case and they need to work it, sighs, and starts, “I think we need to—"

Lorraine jumps up to the table and sits beside Dean with an incredibly cheery, “How was your first night, fellows? Accommodations to your liking?”

Dean kind of gapes at her, no hint whatsoever of a pickup line or anything else in his eyes. 

Always willing to take advantage of opportunities that present themselves, Sam asks, “There's something weird here, isn’t there, Lorraine?”

Lorraine turns candid blue eyes to Sam and says, “What makes you say that?”

“Because it’s…we…” Sam stops and looks to his brother. 

Dean takes a breath and blurts, “Because we kind of really want to fuck each other and that’s pretty new and not to mention illegal and we really shouldn’t.”

Sam tries not to react to hearing Dean admit exactly what Sam’s been thinking — he really does — but God, the tone and images it brings illicit such a heated shimmer in his groin, he has to shift in the chair. 

Lorraine doesn't seem shocked by Dean’s revelation. In fact, she smiles, rather beautifully and pronounces, cryptically, “The island’s never wrong.”

And Sam’s done with the ambiguous crap. “How about you tell us what the island does?”

Lorraine settles in and links her fingers together on the table. “Gentlemen, you are on the Isle of Lesbos. I’m assuming you noticed the women?”

Sam nods and Dean’s look can only be translated as _duh_. 

“It started with two witches long, long ago who were in love with each other and tired of having to hide and wanted a place they could be themselves without fear of, well, at that time…death,” she explains. “So they basically did a spell and kind of created the island. Some people stay because life outside of the island isn’t much of a life. Others come just for vacations or time away.”

Now Sam’s got more questions than answers, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“It’s not random chance that people come here,” she continues. “In your universe it’s kept very much on the down-low and only a select number of people even know it exists. Once the people who know think they can trust a couple, they’re introduced to the concept, but even still, the island chooses. Not everyone can get here.”

Sam glances quickly to Dean and their gazes collide, shocking a small breath from Sam’s lungs. 

“I’m guessing you two have some idea how you got here?”

This time, Sam’s stare is pretty direct. 

Dean fidgets a little in his chair and admits, “I found this artifact.”

Lorraine giggles, obviously tickled, “Let me guess, it was in your hands and Sam here touched it, too?”

Moderately surprised, Sam says, “That’s pretty much exactly what happened.”

Lorraine’s left eyebrow quirks. “But neither of you knew what it was or what would happen?”

They shake their heads simultaneously. 

Lorraine seems to consider this. “Huh. That’s something. This is pretty different. We’ve had men from time to time that the island chooses, but it’s pretty rare. And all of them have known what was happening.”

“So we’re here against our will?” Dean wants to know.

“Quite the contrary,” Lorraine says. “If neither of you wanted this, there’s no way the artifact would have worked. Even if one of you wanted it, but the other didn’t, still, bubkis. You’ve both gotta be on board. It’s just unique that you weren’t aware of what would happen. The island chooses couples based on their connection and bond. A lot of us call it soulmates, for lack of a better term.” She seems to ponder the situation for a second. “I think it’s bigger than that, but there’s really not a word in any language that adequately describes it.”

And Sam’s caught, for a split second, in a bar from years ago that tracks angels and helps souls travel through heaven with a mullet-wearing rocker talking about those who get to share. Soulmates. 

Sam had always wondered how Dean could get into his heaven. 

Still, Sam bends down and has to quietly state, mortification seeping into his tone — absolutely unable to look anywhere near Dean — “We’re brothers, though.”

Lorraine doesn’t react with nearly the revulsion Sam anticipated. In fact, the thoughtful expression remains and the warmth in her eyes doesn’t dim. She shrugs. “Don’t know what to tell you, fellows. I don’t make the rules. But, hey, it’s not like you guys will be producing three-headed babies or anything, right? Dick on dick usually doesn’t result in incestuous kids. If one of you had a uterus, I’d tell you to wrap it up, but hey, no worries there, right?”

They’re both shocked into silence. 

“The bottom line here, boys?” Lorraine leans in. “If you’re looking for judgment or censure or condemnation, you won’t find it here. And in the many years I’ve been here, I can honestly say, the island’s never been wrong.”

The words settle over the table for a few moments. 

Dean clears his throat. “So the island’s making us do this?”

Lorraine smirks. “It’d be easier, wouldn’t it? Have some supernatural thing to blame so you wouldn’t have to deal with what’s really going on?”

Dean glances down to his hands on the table. 

Lorraine pats his forearm. “I get it. I do. But the island’s just a place. Free from all the bullshit that surrounds most people every day. There’s nothing to worry about here.” She shifts a little closer. “And it’s okay to have what you really want.”

Sam’s breath gets caught in his throat. 

“So,” Lorraine declares with a clap of her palms that make both Sam and Dean jump. “Why don’t you get yourselves some breakfast and don’t miss the omelettes. They’re so delish.”

Neither of them move. 

Lorraine stands, “Them’s the facts, guys. The rest of it, you’re gonna have to figure out on your own.”

She leaves with a wave and excited, “Oh my gosh, Laurie!” to the woman at a table across the patio. 

And then it’s the two of them, sitting with the information dump they just received. 

As well as the emotional avalanche. 

Sam assumes now’s as good a time as any to really start figuring a way back home. There’s no way Dean will buy any of this. The previous night was just an anomaly, an aberration, an occurrence in a place out of time that won’t be repeated or likely spoken of ever again. 

Telling himself that, over and over, will be the easiest way to deal when Dean wants to ignore everything. 

Sam’s utterly unprepared to have Dean stand up, push the table slightly out of the way and straddle his lap. 

Damn near every ounce of blood in Sam’s body rockets straight to his dick and it’s more instinct than any calculated plan to grip Dean’s hips in his hands, steadying the both of them as much as possible in the given circumstance. 

How the hell can linen pants feel like silk against his Dean’s legs? Sam will never understand, but he revels in the softness and sheer quality, allowing him to catch glimpses not only of the shape of his brother’s dick inside the material, but just a hint of the color, too. 

His mouth waters and he chokes out a quiet, “Dean.”

“I was thinking,” Dean whispers, leaning in a little, sliding his hands along Sam’s shoulders. “That after seeing what you got inside those shorts, I really want you to fuck me.”

Sam’s groin jerks up and he grunts against Dean’s clavicle. Jesus. He’s gotta reach for some level of sanity here. “So you get the nod from the equivalent of the cruise director and you’re suddenly okay with all of this?”

Dean slips back and makes eye contact. “I was okay with it last night, Sammy. In case you didn’t notice.”

“I…” Sam starts and says the lamest thing in his head. “H-haven’t showered.”

Dean grins. And it's a smile from a long time ago. An older brother look that’s a combination of fondness, put-upon tolerance and deep admiration and it explodes in Sam’s heart like nothing probably ever could or has. 

Dean settles in, putting more of his weight against Sam’s upper thighs, bringing their cocks together in a slide between linen and nylon and he murmurs, “The truth of it is I kind of like you not showered. You smell like Sammy and a little like…um, us.”

Sam’s hands trip from Dean’s pants to his lower back, where his skin, warmed from the sun, feels vulnerably soft and he watches the seemingly unplanned shiver march across Dean’s stomach. 

“But the real secret here,” Dean confides, twining his fingers through Sam’s hair at the base of his skull, “is that the nice lady…what was her name again?”

Sam closes his eyes to keep them from crossing. Has no fucking clue what Dean’s even asking. 

“Sammy?” Dean whispers. 

Sam gurgles a questioning sound. 

“The lady who just so thoroughly explained this place to us,” Dean says, while his thumb sweeps just under Sam’s jaw. 

Sam nods. He thinks he does, anyway. 

“What was her name?”

Sam frowns a little and asks stupidly, “Didn’t I introduce y-you?”

Dean’s voice sounds purely infatuated. “You did not.”

“I didn’t,” Sam sucks in a breath when Dean scratches his blunt nails against Sam’s scalp. “mean t-to forget.”

Dean hums, “Course not. You remember her name, though?”

Sam’s pretty sure his brain’s gone completely offline, but he manages to open his eyes and whisper, “Lorraine.”

“Ah,” Dean murmurs. “well the thing is, Lorraine basically just told me that there’s nothing here that’s making us do this and nothing supernatural about this place. Which means we both want it and right now, I really want this,” and somehow — _somehow_ — Dean manages to grind his ass down against Sam’s crotch in a way that fits Sam’s cock directly between Dean’s asscheeks and the warmth and promise of tight heat — even through the layers — make Sam’s balls twitch, “as deep in me as you can get it.”

Sam hisses and grabs his brother’s shoulder blades, bringing them chest to chest. 

“Sammy,” Dean says, while holding him off with a fist in Sam’s hair. “You can still say no. I mean it. Despite what she said, you don’t really want this, I’ll get up, we’ll figure out a way home. No harm, no foul.”

Sam makes sure to hold eye contact with Dean when he answers, in a voice made gruff by hunger, “I swear to you, I have never wanted anything more in my life.”

Dean melts, there’s really no other word for it, and connects their mouths in a smooth, liquid slide that takes Sam’s heartbeat and conscious thoughts and they’re kissing, tongues lapping, lips skimming, and goddamn, Sam’s never known his mouth to be this connected to his cock, but the taste and feel of Dean’s mouth makes his dick absolutely throb. 

Dean guides the kiss with his hands in Sam’s hair and Sam loses time. A lot of it. 

His lips tingle, almost vibrate, with the sweet friction and he’ll likely never really know what it is — a seagull, a voice, something — that makes him realize where they are and how close Dean is to getting fucked on a chair on the veranda of this island. 

It’s like pulling off his own skin to draw back, but he does, cautioning, “Dean. We can’t do this here.”

It takes Dean a while, four or five more kisses, for Sam's words to penetrate and for a brief moment, Sam basks in the fact that Dean seems just as out-of-his-mind with this as Sam feels. 

Dean nods erratically and stands with a wobble, his cock absolutely tenting his pants. 

Sam reaches out without thinking and fists his brother’s dick, through the linen, and Dean sags, knees giving way, has to catch himself on Sam's shoulders. 

And Dean’s hands are back in Sam’s hair with a warning, “You wanna do this somewhere else, you gotta let go.”

Sam does so reluctantly and Dean licks into Sam’s mouth two more times before twisting out of Sam’s lap and moving away from the crowds. 

Sam follows, bent over as best he can to hide the pulsing hard-on in his shorts. By the time he makes it back to the bed, Dean’s naked on the mattress, condom and lube beside him and the reality of this hits Sam square in the chest. 

“Dean,” he says, hovering near the end of the bed. “You ever do anything with guys before?”

And despite the flush on his brother’s chest and hard, wet dick, Dean glances away with an uncertain, “Maybe.”

Sam puts a knee on the bed. “Things are pretty imminent here, Dean. I’m gonna need more than a maybe.”

Dean huffs a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I gotta be doing something wrong, Sammy, if you can still use your college words like that.” 

It’s deflection, pure and simple. And Sam can easily recognize his brother's tells. He clears his throat. "If it helps, I have.”

That shocks Dean out of his bullshit and his eyes widen. “You have? When? College?”

Sam tries to hide his smile with a glance at the sheets. “Then and before.”

Dean boggles outright at that. “Before? When? How the hell did I not know?”

Sam crawls next to his brother and admits, “Like I’m gonna admit to the great ladies’ man Dean Winchester that I messed around with guys. Remember the high school I went to in Arizona?” Dean might be a little distracted by the fact that Sam kicked off his shorts before joining him on the bed, so Sam continues, “There was a guy in my Calculus class who…”

Dean inhales around a ragged breath and a tone that wants Sam to keep going, “Who?”

Sam drags his index finger down his brother’s sternum. “Who might have fingered me in the band room after a football game.”

Dean’s hips actually jolt toward Sam and he breathes _fuck Sammy_ as he uncurls and straddles Sam’s legs on the bed, confessing, “Four. I fucked four guys.”

It takes everything — _everything_ — Sam has not to come against his brother’s thigh at that admission. He grunts, “Dean, Jesus Christ.”

Dean undulates, twisting against Sam’s body and breathes, “Dad almost caught me once.”

Fuck. 

_Fuck_. 

The thoughts and images that brings should not — _should fucking not_ — swell Sam’s cock even more, but God and every other deity out there help him, it does. It fucking does. 

Dean’s almost as ungraceful as Sam has ever seen him when he fumbles with the condom and grits, “Put this on.”

Sam somehow manages to disconnect his mind with the sensations of his hand on his own dick and sliding the rubber over the exceedingly responsive skin. He wants very much to come inside his brother and the deliberate detachment is the only way he can guarantee that. 

Dean pours — literally pours — so much lube all over Sam’s groin that his pubes are even saturated and when Dean kneels up with a soft, “I got this, Sammy,” Sam is categorically mesmerized when Dean reaches behind himself and pushes what Sam guesses are two of his own fingers, liberally soaked with lube, into his ass. 

Realizing he doesn’t have to imagine, Sam slides a hand under Dean’s balls to poke and prod at the wet, full hole and Dean hisses, “Sammy, one. Give me one of yours.”

There’s two. Two of Dean’s fingers in his own ass and slowly — God he wants to be so careful — Sam wiggles his middle finger behind and in between Dean’s two and his brother shakes, trembles in Sam’s lap and shit — _shit_ — this needs to happen soon. He tries to convey that with a quiet, “Dean.”

As has been the way practically since the beginning, Dean gets what Sam is asking and withgrunt, untangles their fingers and grabs Sam’s cock. 

Fucking _fuck_. This is gonna happen. 

It’s unreal, the slide, the slick, the grip of his brother’s ass over Sam’s condom-covered cock. Sam doesn’t think he breathes for a full ten seconds when Dean gradually, haltingly descends on Sam’s dick. 

Once they’re connected, Sam fully seated, Dean’s thighs sticky with the lube on Sam’s groin, they inhale in sync and Sam looks up and Dean looks down and something snaps. Together. Concurrent. 

Dean puts his hands on Sam’s biceps and Sam grabs Dean’s ass and the rhythm starts up, churning, grinding, elongating with each roll of their hips until Dean’s pulling almost completely up and out and Sam’s thrusting in counterpoint. 

“Sammy,” Dean gasps after a full minute. “Shit. You’re gonna make me come.”

It's said at the same second Dean grabs his cock, thick, pulsing with precome all over Sam’s abs and strokes virtually in time with each of Sam’s upward jolts of his hips and Dean chants, gruffly, _make me make me make me,_ just before Sam feels the contractions of Dean’s rim around the base of his cock and Dean shoots, spurts of white all over Sam’s chest, and he goes rigid on top of Sam, caught in his release.

And _thank fuck_ Sam lasted this long because the feelings and sensations and total surrenderof Dean give Sam permission to let go and he relents, lets his orgasm take him and for a minute, he’s fairly certain he blacks out and all he knows is his brother above him, nonsense words falling from his mouth, and it’s gorgeous and Sam clenches, shooting everything into the condom and it’s a full thirty seconds before he slackens, relaxes, takes Dean down with him and they’re both gasping for breath against each other, drained, sated. 

When Dean lifts his head and pronounces a resounding _Christ_ , Sam laughs a little and Dean grins and somehow, it’s not only okay but pretty damn awesome. 

It’s only a long time later than Sam realizes they never did try the omelettes. 

***

Sam finds Dean sunbathing on the beach — naked — and there’s no way he can resist that. Dean’s stretched out on his back on a blanket, propped up by some pillows and Sam insinuates himself right over his brother, between his legs, his back to Dean’s chest and settles in. 

Dean grunts, mumbles something that sounds like _how’s a guy supposed to get any sun when there’s a Sasquatch draped all over him_ , but he’s got his nose in Sam’s hair and his fingers drift under Sam’s ribs, just grazing skin, and the tingle zings right to Sam’s dick inside his shorts and he drops his knees open a little wider. 

Dean puffs a little laugh against the shell of Sam’s ear, “So easy.”

Sam arches his back and whispers, “Dean.”

“Huh uh, baby brother. You interrupted me. You don’t get to set the pace here."

And shit — _shit_ — it shouldn’t do anything to Sam’s belly to hear Dean call him that when they’re doing this, but Jesus, it does. It really, really does. 

Dean plays — there’s really no other word for it — across Sam’s skin like it’s some kind of canvass and Dean’s the painter. His fingers never land on any spot for too long and the contact sends shivers from Sam’s head to his toes.

It’s on a particularly strong squeeze that Sam can feel the sand on his brother’s skin. It should hurt, the grating, rough texture, but instead, it just adds another dimension, a secondary sensation that has Sam curling his hips up for some kind of relief from the thickening of his cock. 

Dean’s wandering hands latch onto Sam’s nipples and he can’t explain it — so much of this with Dean he finds entirely enigmatic — but since being on the island, his nipples have become remarkably sensitive. He was never much of a nipple-guy before, but something about Dean or his fingers or his ability to pluck and pull and pinch and squeeze has Sam writhing against his brother’s back, chest arched back and Sam’s head sharing the pillows behind Dean’s head. 

“They get all tight for me, don’t they,” Dean whispers, rolling the twin pebbles around both of his middle fingers, grains of sand making Dean’s skin rough. “You like the squeezes,” and there’s a pinch, “or just the rub?” and the pads of his fingers are back, sending bursts of sensation to Sam’s cock and Sam’s mindless with hunger and want. 

“Dean,” he hisses. “I need…”

And part of the reason Sam stops his words is because he thinks, hopes, prays that Dean will answer…

“What, baby boy?” Dean breathes against Sam’s neck. “What do you want?”

Sam whines. His balls hurt, his nipples tweaked and tugged to aching points, and Dean’s tone and words and all of it join together to make Sam feel so damn cherished, treasured, taken care of, that he pleads, “I w-want you to fuck me.”

Dean’s hard against the small of Sam’s back — has been almost since Sam draped himself over his brother — but Sam’s request makes Dean’s cock actually throb — Sam can feel it — and the resultant precome wets Sam’s skin as Dean grinds up against him with a clenched, “Fuck, Sammy. Shit.”

Sam opens his knees wider, spreading Dean’s thighs with them, and he murmurs, “Please, Dean.”

Dean lets go of Sam’s left nipple and skates his palm up Sam’s throat to his chin, pulling Sam’s cheek against his mouth and commands, “Get back to the bungalow and be naked by the time I get there.”

Sam’s frozen, caught wholly in his brother’s influence and for a second, he can’t move. 

Dean’s other hand skates down, down, down to Sam’s crotch, palms his cock and says, “Unless you want me to take care of you here.”

And suddenly, Sam needs desperately to come with his brother’s cock buried deep inside his ass and he he whispers, “Want you inside me.”

Dean’s suspended for almost a full minute before he grits, “You know what you have to do to get fucked, Sammy. Bungalow. Naked. Now.”

Sam’s not completely sure what it is that makes him roll to the side and awkwardly get to his knees and eventually his feet and stumble his way to number fifteen. 

With shaky hands he gets rid of his beach shorts and stretches out on his back on the bed only moments before Dean walks up, hard cock standing out, apparently not caring at all who sees him, and assuring Sam he'd washed the sand off his hands. 

The concurrence of consideration and unabashed nudity completely overwhelms Sam and he breathes, "Dean."

“So, Sammy,” Dean starts, kneeing his way onto the bed. “You ever do more than get fingered by the guy in the band room?”

Sam loses his ability of speech for a second, but figures if Dean could be candid, so can he. “I…” he breathes. “No. I messed around in college, blow jobs and hand jobs and stuff, but never more than fingering.”

Dean looks startled and murmurs, “So I’ll be the…”

For a wild minute, based on the expression on his brother’s face, Sam thinks it’s over before it even really gets started. Dean looks freaked out for a second, but eventually becomes as serious as Sam has ever seen him and moves to get the lube and the condoms. 

When Dean returns, he inches his way over Sam for the softest kiss Sam’s gotten in his life. 

“You’ll tell me, right, Sammy?” Dean asks quietly, worry present in his green eyes. “I can’t hurt you. Ever. So, you’ll tell me, right?”

Sam can only nod. 

And Dean gets down to business, wets his fingers with the lube and says, “I’ll show you. I’ll make it good. Promise." 

And Sam drops his knees open, cants his hips up an inhales sharply as Dean slots in, starts with just his middle finger and shit — _shit_ — having this be Dean is nothing like Sam’s ever experienced before. The other guys might as well have been complete amateurs in the face of Dean. 

His brother's got this knowing gleam in his eyes that promises pleasure and fulfillment and shoots fire straight to Sam's cock. 

Dean’s finger breaches Sam’s ass in a gradual penetration that leaves Sam breathless and spreading his legs for more. 

“Dea—“ Sam breathes, and he’s not sure, but he thinks the N gets lost somewhere between his throat and his mouth and Dean glances up to make eye contact. 

His expression is open, guileless. “You haven’t called me that since we were kids."

Sam twitches, mortified, contracting around Dean’s finger, a combination of chagrin and wanting to feel the slight fullness, and whispers, “Sorry. M’sorry, Dean. It just slipped out.”

And Dean’s lips are beside Sam’s ear in the next breath and he whispers, “Don’t you ever be sorry for anything you say when we’re like this. You get that, Sammy? Ever.”

Sam takes the opportunity to grab a hold of Dean, pulling his brother in close and says, “Kay.”

"You call me whatever you want and say whatever comes to that amazing brain of yours."

Sam smiles and tilts his chin up and Dean huffs a laugh and connects their mouths in the silently requested kiss. 

Dean doesn't move except for his lips over Sam's for the next few minutes and Sam gets so lost in their mouths that when Dean crooks his finger, Sam’s entire body lights up as Dean, without any effort at all, finds his prostate, shooting fireworks off behind Sam’s eyes. 

“I get it, baby boy?” Dean asks around Sam's lips, clearly already knowing the answer. 

“Dea,” Sam murmurs, mindless.

Dean trails lips down Sam's neck and latches onto a nipple and Sam gasps, arching his back while at the same time digging his hips into the mattress, strung tight between the wet pulls on his nipple and the light taps on his prostate. 

He can't say for sure what noises ripple out of his throat, he only knows heedless, breath-stealing pleasure. 

Sam couldn’t honestly say when Dean had put on the condom, but his brother is there, cock sheathed, and hovering over Sam, flushed and sweaty and so gorgeous. 

"We're gonna do this slow, okay, Sammy?"

Sam shakes his head, hair rustling against the sheet. “Dean, please.”

Dean pulls his fingers out so reluctantly, it's almost a caress in and of itself, and then the tip of his cock is there, just grazing Sam's sensitive, stretched hole. 

The inexorable push inside takes Sam's breath and he can feel his ass open up, rend, split and it should feel invasive, obtrusive, but all he knows is a sense of rightness, completion, purity.

When Dean's as deep as he can go, he stops totally and rasps, "Okay, Sammy?"

Sam shifts his knees even further on either side of Dean's thighs and whimpers deep in his chest. 

Dean rests with his palms on either side of Sam's shoulders and whispers, "Look at me, baby."

Sam's eyes flutter open and his brother's above him with the most reverent expression and Sam reaches out to Dean's jaw. 

"You okay?" Dean tries again. 

Sam nods and says, "Always with you."

It’s slow when Dean starts up the rhythm, gentle, considerate, but eventually, he’s grinding, thrusting, churning in and out, and it’s everything Sam’s ever wanted. He  doesn’t even care who sees them, him, like this, legs spread wide open around Dean’s hips, gritting such needy sounds past his clenched teeth, damn near gagging for his brother’s dick as far up his ass as he can get it. 

In fact, there’s a twisted part of him that would like nothing more than to do exactly this in front of a crowd. Show these women beyond a shadow of a doubt how very much he likes getting deep-dicked by Dean. 

The thought of being on display like that makes him clench a little and groan, “Dean…”

Dean’s hips never stop when he murmurs, “Fuck, Sammy, you’re tight.”

And yes, yeah, _God yes_ , he wants to be everything Dean needs — tight, willing, accommodating, open to anything. Sam stretches his hands above his head, rolls his body in time with Dean's thrusts and when Dean fully leans forward, tucking his head against Sam's neck, abdomen rubbing along Sam's cock, Sam hitches his hips up just the slightest and can feel his orgasm build in the base of his spine. 

"Dean," he grits. "I'm gonna..."

Dean flattens himself onto Sam for the briefest of seconds and that's all it takes for Sam's balls to pull tight and he's keening, body spasming, ass clenching steadily around his brother's dick and his eyes roll back. 

Dean groans, "Shit, I can feel you..." and he's jerking above Sam, coming on a drawn-out moan, before collapsing half-on, half-off Sam. 

Sam pants against the skin just under Dean's ear. 

Dean says into the pillow, "That's a hell of a lot more than fingering."

Sam can't help but laugh and burrow into his brother for kiss before pelting him with a pillow. 

***

Sam stretches against the sheets at the end of the bed, lying perpendicular to Dean, watching the sun as it drifts lower and lower on the horizon. 

His heartbeat thumps deeply, rhythmically in his chest and he's as relaxed as he can remember being for pretty much his entire life. He churns his hips, reveling in the fucked-out feeling in his ass, having no idea what time or day it is.

He turns his head against the sheets, away from the shoreline, hair rustling under his ear, and surprisingly, finds Dean awake. 

Sam grins and crawls up the bed to his brother's side with a murmured, "Thought you were asleep."

Dean hums, tucking Sam's hair behind his ear. "With a view like this?"

Something in Sam's heart suspects his brother might not be talking about the sunset, and he can't help but rub his cheek against Dean's palm. "Truth?" he whispers. 

Dean makes a sound in the back of his throat. 

Sam takes that as assent. "You ever think about this before? You and me? Like this?"

It's a question that's been in his head for a while now, practically since they first arrived on the island. 

Dean’s unguarded, open, guileless, thumbing a little at Sam’s lip, when he says, “Yeah. A time or two.”

Sam flutters a bit in surprise and Dean must feel it because he pulls away abruptly on an indrawn breath and scoots further from Sam on the bed. “Yeah. I’m a pretty big freak. No great shock there, right, Sammy?”

It’s all bluster and deflection and cover-up and somehow, after everything, it feels really, really wrong. 

Before his brother gets too far into the barricade he’s constructing, Sam slides the necessary few inches until their skin connects again and he murmurs, “Because I did. Think about this,” Sam trails his lips behind Dean’s ear and notices his brother’s answering shiver. “Quite a lot, actually.”

Dean withdraws only enough to make eye contact. He watches Sam closely. 

“M’not fucking with you here, Dean,” Sam whispers. “You were my everything when we were kids and when I got older…” Sam breathes, knows this is as good a time as any for confessions. “I thought about you and me. Like this sometimes. But it was just a quick flash or something and I figured it was just those random thoughts everyone had.”

Dean nods and Sam can’t help but trace his brother’s jaw with his middle finger, stubble scratching against his skin, mesmerizing, he watches the slow back and forth for a bit before continuing, “But this really doesn’t feel wrong. You’ve been…I don’t know like a part of me for literally as long as I can remember and I know there’ve been times — stupid times — where we forgot that, but it’s almost like I know you about as well as I know myself, so this just…makes a weird kind of sense.”

Sam blinks, hears what he just said, and pulls back. Shit. That might have been too much. 

“You gonna send your resume to Hallmark at some point, Sammy?”

Sam huffs a laugh and the required “jerk,” and falls onto his back on the mattress. He knows better than to take it too chick-flick. 

"Maybe you'll make it to the Hallmark Channel," Dean muses. "Now that would be cool."

Sam closes his eyes. "I hate you."

"You could totally introduce me to Candace Cameron-Bure and we could talk Full House and--"

"Shut up," Sam can't help but chuckle a little."

"You think she'd take me to lunch with everyone? Me and Uncle Jesse," Dean makes that irritating clicking sound behind his teeth. "So awesome."

"You are such an ass," Sam sighs. 

"Yeah, but see, the thing is," and suddenly, Dean's up close and personal, sliding his leg alongside Sam's, nosing his way under Sam's chin and Sam loses his breath for a second or two. "I'm your ass, right?"

"Dean..." Sam murmurs against his brother's cheek. 

"Because the truth is, bitch," and Dean says it like he knows Sam was waiting for it, like he knows it would have bothered Sam not to hear it, because the reciprocation is part of it, part of them. "I'm with you. On all of it. This, you and me, and well, this," and he emphasizes that with a purposeful undulation of his hips, "does make a weird kind of sense. Feels like," and now he balks a little, gets that shy, won't-really-make-eye-contact-chin-bob, “it's more right than anything has ever been. For me, anyway."

And that, those words spark something deep and profound inside Sam and he giggles a little, kind of embarrassed and kind of not, and he pulls his brother into a full-body hug and says, "For me, too."

That night, they doze on and off under the moon, always connected in some way -- fingers laced together, a hand on a thigh, lips against skin, ankles hooked -- and every time one of them shifts, the other follows, consciously or unconsciously. 

Almost like they are the same person. 

***

Sam pops the ripest, juiciest strawberry he thinks he’s ever tasted into his mouth at breakfast the next morning and can’t help but sit up a little to put the second one against Dean’s lips. 

Dean grins around the red and tongues the fruit into his mouth and wordlessly nods his agreement to Sam’s unvoiced thought. 

Sam wonders, fleetingly, about telepathy, and figures if any two people could pull it off, it would be them. 

Dean kicks his legs into Sam’s lap and finishes chewing just as Lorraine sets an object on the table between them. 

Sam’s smile freezes in place when he realizes it’s the artifact from the bunker. 

Dean barely breathes next to him. 

“Boys,” Lorraine begins. “We’ve been talking about you.” 

Sam swallows past the lump in his throat.

“Don’t puke up your breakfast or anything, guys,” Lorraine admonishes. “Lord but you’re drama queens. We’re all pretty proud of you. A lot of people don’t have the balls to accept themselves and go after what they want. We’re all glad to see you did.”

Sam wraps his palm around Dean’s ankle. Kind of tight. 

“But the thing is,” Lorraine continues as she taps the artifact. “The island is about choice. Always has been. Always will be. You can stay. A lot of people do. We’d love to have you.”

Sam thumbs the bone on Dean’s ankle. 

“But you also have the option of going back. If you want.”

Dean sighs, deep. 

“I’m assuming you remember how this works,” Lorraine says, propping her hip against the table. “You both lay hands on it and boom. You’re back. Time works differently here, so you’ll go back to the exact same time you left. Nothing will be changed. Well, except, you know…”

“So we’ll remember?” Dean’s voice wobbles only enough for Sam to notice. 

Lorraine nods. “You’ll remember.”

Neither of them can stop staring at the artifact. 

Lorraine moves around them with a squeeze to Dean’s shoulder and a scritch of her fingernails in Sam’s hair. 

When she’s gone, Dean uncurls his legs and settles himself into Sam’s lap, wraps his arms around Sam’s shoulders and Sam just hangs on. 

***

It’s strange because it’s not about sex. 

They swim and dunk each other in the water. Sam gets a hell of a splash in on Dean that absolutely soaks him. It’s hilarious. 

They eat the insanely good food. And Dean proclaims he’s ruined for Olive Garden forevermore. 

They talk to the ladies, while sitting on the veranda, and there’s not a single second that Sam isn’t touching Dean in some way. Hand on a bare knee, lips against his brother’s tanned shoulder while he listens to one of Dean’s animated stories, absently rubbing circles on Dean’s forearm. 

And when Sam’s talking, Dean’s fingers stroke the hair at the base of his neck, or he hooks a knee over Sam’s after sliding his chair close enough. 

Dean laughs more than Sam’s ever seen him. 

And Sam feels more content than he’s ever known. 

When the sun starts to set, they wander back to the bungalow and sit together on the end of the bed, Sam’s arm over Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s hand around Sam’s waist. 

And Sam can’t help but think _where it all began_. 

Sam sighs and pulls his brother close enough for a kiss. Soft. Chaste. 

Hopefully not a goodbye. 

They never really talk about it. They know what they have to do. They know their true purpose. 

Dean reaches behind them with his free hand and puts the artifact on his own knee. 

Sam whispers _one more_ and kisses Dean again, slides his tongue past Dean’s teeth, gets a little lost.

Dean pulls away, smiles, connects their mouths one more time before shifting back far enough to put the artifact between them on the mattress. 

Dean tucks Sam’s hair behind his ear and leans up to put his lips against Sam’s forehead. 

Sam reaches out for the artifact in his brother’s hands and thinks _please don’t let this all be lost_ before everything goes black.

***

The cool floor of the bunker’s stock room and climate-controlled air shocks Sam to consciousness more than anything. He’s dressed just as he had been when he left. 

His very first thought is he wants the island back. He wants the warmth and the beach and the lack of worry and his brother by his side, smiling. 

But he knows this is his life, chosen willingly years ago, and Amara is still out there and there’s always a bad guy to stop from hurting an innocent person and even if, when presented with reality, they go back to the status quo and the way things were, and Sam doesn’t get to wake with his brother in his arms, he will be happy with the memories he has. 

He will. 

_He will._

Sam clings, somewhat maniacally, to those two words when he lifts his head off the floor to find Dean right there, fully clothed, practically in the same sprawl, eyes open, watching intently. 

Time hangs suspended, for a breath or two, maybe five or six, and Sam knows the precipice on which they stand and suddenly, despite his overwhelming want, he won’t push Dean for anything. He’ll let his brother take the lead here. 

Dean deserves that and so much more. 

Still, Sam’s heart flutters in his throat because he remembers Dean’s initial words of _what happens here, stays here_ , and Sam really doesn’t want to have to ignore what happened. 

Dean’s glance trips along Sam’s body, possibly looking for injury, maybe something else, it’s difficult to determine. 

And when his eyes rise to connect once again to Sam’s, Dean’s face morphs into the most beautiful, suggestive, a little depraved grin Sam has ever seen, and he asks, “Wanna test out the memory foam?"

Pure, profound joy cascades through every cell in Sam’s body and an unbridled laugh trembles past his lips as he wiggles his way to Dean, folds himself into his brother’s personal space and whispers against his lips, “Hell yeah I do.”

By the time the sun rises, somewhere outside the walls that surround them, the memory foam has been thoroughly tested and Sam and Dean have never in their lives been closer. 

Or happier. 

~ fin


End file.
